Tag Archives: miscellaneous

Wouldn’t go to San Antonio, TX for a $100 bill plus gas

Hi readers.  When I got back from town yesterday and was putting the groceries into hideyholes and places they wouldn’t scatter hell-to-breakfast in the RV when it went up the hill again I came across a slip of paper the cashier put in one of the bags.  Had a ‘code’ number on it and said if I went to HEB.com/viva and put in that number I could win valuable prizes.

Well, heck.  I was thinking I wouldn’t mind winning a free bag of potatoes, a bag of onions, who knows?  Maybe some cat food or a pound of cheese.  A nice brisket would be nice.

So naturally I plugged in the website, went through my name, email address, zipcode and age to get all whetted down so’s I could find out if my number was a big winner.

Whoopteedooo!  I won a free pass to some museum 100, 150 miles away from here I wouldn’t go to without a gun to my head.  Those folks surely do take care of their customers and know how to build enthusiasm for promotions.


Hi D M,
Thanks for celebrating 70 years with H-E-B in San Antonio and entering the ¡Viva! SA Giveaway today! You’re now in the running for the chance to win free passes to exciting San Antonio landmarks, gift cards to great SA shops and restaurants and MUCH MORE.There are plenty of other spots on the iViva! SA Game Board to visit. Don’t miss a single chance to win – come back with a new code soon to unlock a space on the board!

Visit all 8 hot spots by October 1, 2013!

Good luck,

Your friends at H-E-B

I should have known a grocery store chain had better sense than to give away something valuable such as a bag of potatoes or onions.

Old Jules

Superb judge of character, me

Hi readers.  Thanks for coming by for a read.

I slipped over to Yahoo News when I got online this morning, wanted to find out whether the world went up in smoke during the night.  Turns out all the news is piddly stuff mostly, nosy things allowing the non-celebrities spot checks into what life’s like for the sainted big named and big-breasted.

But something caught my eye about some 10 year old kid who found a mummy in the attic of the house his grandparents owned.  Brought to mind what a great judge of character I pride myself being.

Early 2000s a friend of mine died near Belen, NM.  He and I loved the same books about history, etc, and he used to joke he’d leave me that several walls of books we both cherished, when he died.  And I’d tell him I would kill him if he left me those books to have to drag around and find someone else to leave them to.

His house was a museum of artifacts he’d found.  We’d even done some artifact searching together.  I think some of those mini-balls on one of the lead pictures on this blog were found when we were somewhere together.

So when I saw in the Albuquerque paper that he’d died I was careful not to contact anyone concerning the fact we knew one another.  Not because I was afraid he’d left me those books, either.

Turned out he’d been robbing graves down in the neighborhood of where those mini-balls were found.  Maybe graves elsewhere, old ones.

Back room of that house was jam-packed with human remains a century-or-more old.  Bastard never showed them to me, all the time we were sitting around drinking coffee and talking about history.

Which I suppose is okay, because I put a high value on his friendship, enjoyed knowing him a lot.  And sometimes even then I’d forget how old I was and have to decide spur-of-the-moment whether to open a can of whupass on someone.

In his case if I’d known what he had in that back room we might have had to pick our weapons out of his museum and go at it.  I had a lot of mixed feelings swirling around inside me when the news came out and he had his brief day in the sun.

I’d have never suspected it of him.  So he’s the exception proving the rule.  I’ve got everyone else figured out.

Old Jules

Moving the White House and Congress to Disneyland – A serious proposal

Hi readers.

Representative democracy isn’t working and pretty well everyone knows it.  Potential voters aren’t interestedand most don’t even recognize the costumes candidates wear to disguise themselves.  Citizens have learned from hard experience that they can vote for Snuffy Smith, L’il Abner or Joe Palooka and they still end up with Daddy Warbucks.

Moving the seat of the US government to Disneylandwould go a long way toward correcting that.  Everyone would know the candidates, known them all their lives.   A vote for Mickey Mouse or Goofy wouldn’t get you Scrooge McDuck in the White House.  Everyone is honest in Disneyland, and you get what you pay for.  Drucilla doesn’t get any glass slippers, Chittychittybangbang doesn’t have an atomic warhead and the Lady and the Tramp are all right there where everyone can see the fire hydrants.

The other advantage is that the Powerball Lottery HQ is right there in Orlando, close enough to move the IRS in there with them and do something about how the government can raise money on a more even-handed basis.  They could have billion dollar jackpots and just end their foreign wars a day earlier to pay off the winners.  Hell, everyone would be buying tickets.  And they wouldn’t gripe about doing it.

They could have a drawing every day giving away a billion dollars, all the while cutting off one day in the distant future when they’d end the wars overseas, bring the troops home.  It would assure that someday the past would catch up with the future and voila!  No more foreign military adventures!

Mary Poppins would make one hell of a lot better president than any we’ve had since wossname, Washington.

Old Jules

Saved by the British? Wow!

Hi readers.  Thanks for coming by.

My friend Rich explained on the phone last night that this guy in the White House had his heart set on embarking on a new military adventure.  Wants to bomb the bejesus out of Syria, of all places.  Sounds as though he wants to take a page out of the Bush book and use the second-cousin of WMD to justify it.

But at least the Brits have some questions in their minds left over from the last time they believed a lying US president and got themselves into a stewpot.  Plus, no doubt the ‘What’s in if for me?‘ part of the equation didn’t work out.

Evidently Israel, who probably provided the chemical weapons to the party who used them, and the French are just about the only people in the world with any enthusiasm forselective humanitarianism. 

The Chinese say, “Hey, let’s have a closer look at all this crap and find out whether anyone’s telling the truth about any part of it before we jump in chasing imaginary WMDs.”   Likely the Chinese are well aware of the propensity of US presidents for stretching the truth and trotting off into military interventions, false flag terrorism, and just lying for the sake of lying.  And no doubt they’ve got a fair idea who is hiding next door blowing into the coals of “Let’s you and him fight.”  Probably figuring they might be able to come out of it with a few inadvertent more miles of territory belonging to someone else.

Sheeze.  Sounds as though for once a presidential war might be avoided, and that the Brits might be a crucial part of the reason.

Wonders never cease.  Maybe if everyone but the French can keep their testosteronies under control, and if the Israeli  Security people can’t find an Archduke Ferdinand to off,  WWI can be prevented this time around.

Old Jules

Tags:  Syria, Israel, presidential war, US government, britain, france, WMD, Bush, false flag, chemical weapons, humanitarian

The redeeming virtues of right wing death squads

An open letter to President Wossname, the guy in the White House

Backward South American countries gave right-wing death squads a bad name during the last half of the 20th Century. Naturally nobody wanted to be identified with anything backward Mexicans in Chile or Argentina did, so for a while the United States People In Power tried to find lower profile alternatives to accomplish the same goals.

But the truth is that throwing the baby out with the bathwater just narrows the options more than is required.

Henry Ford, the US mining industry, the US lumber industry, and during the Vietnam War, the US government all used right-wing death squads for the greater good of all. The industries would have had a lot more difficulties busting the unions if it hadn’t been for right-wing death squads. The US government couldn’t have killed off all the Black Panthers without them. The Vietnam War protests would have gone on and on ad infinitum if the Ohio National Guard’s right-wing death squad hadn’t opened up on those students at Ohio State and showed them what-for.

Bill Clinton and Janet Reno ran up a trial balloon at Waco, then again at Ruby Ridge in an attempt to restore the usefulness of right-wing death squads, clean up the image. But for reasons not fully understood, the practice was then dropped.

Hopefully this guy in there now will examine the benefits the US has reaped in the past through the use of right-wing death squads and see it’s time to bring it back for the greater good of all.

Right wing death squads aren’t a solution to every problem, as Bill and Hillary Clinton and Janet Reno demonstrated. But that only means they didn’t use the right tool for the right job.

Right-wing death squads worked admirably for Henry Ford and the mining and lumber industries. They worked great in South America, despite the bad press. And history proves they can work well again in the United States if properly applied.

Yours truly,

Old Jules

These Colors Don’t Run – These Colors Don’t Even WALK Fast

These colors STOP in the middle of grocery aisles to talk on the cell phone.

These colors use the REMOTE to change channels.

These colors WALK to the refrigerator.

Hi readers. I saw a fresh new bumper sticker in the grocery store parking lot lately. Seemed to me it was okay, as far as it went. But a person needs more bumper stickers to cover the subject, or a bigger one.

Old Jules

Hitch-hiking from Beatnik to Hippiedom

Hi readers.  Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.

When I got out of the Army, summer 1964, I had a lot of ideas about my bright future.  Shopped around the Portales area for a while and found a quarter-section cotton farm I thought briefly I’d buy and become a starving-to-death farmer, which fell through.  Worked meanwhile, for Abe Ribble at his cement operation, and applied for the Peace Corps, knowing I wouldn’t hear from them for several months.

I was hanging out with a number of other young guys who were at loose ends, drinking coffee and walking around town, sitting on benches around the courthouse trying to figure out the meaning of life.  Going out with a waitress out at the truckstop when she got off work at midnight.  A young woman with goals, and confidence that no matter what a man might want for himself, she could mold him into something more to her liking.  Once she got him nailed down on all the corners.

The World Fair was going on in New York that year.  I could feel the walls of Portales trying to close in on me, and the guys I’d been spending spare time with were mostly thinking of themselves as beatniks, to the extend a person could be a beatnik in Portales.  A slight beard and a beret went a long way in that direction.  Sketchpad and a piece of charcoal, or a lot of free-verse poems jotted on cafe napkins were the tools.

So another aspiring beatnik, Stan Sexton, and I, decided to hitch to beatnik heaven.  Check out the World Fair.  Visit a couple of New Yorker weekend beatniks who went to Eastern New Mexico University, but were home in Westchester that summer.

I’ve told elsewhere on this blog about that summer, about sleeping on the Brooklyn Bridge, about catching the freight-train out late-August, jail in Rochester, and eventually hitching, driving the school bus to California, etc.  About all those would-be beatnik women and the “Eh?  YOU don’t believe in free love?” pickup line that always worked.

When I was accepted for Peace Corps Training and headed out of New York I had no idea I was seeing the dying gasp of the Beatnik phase everywhere.  That a year later everyone who was anyone would be Hippy.  That Greenwich Village would be replaced by San Francisco as the center of ‘what’s happening in America’.  Kids would be burning their draft-cards and taking acid trips.  Doing ‘Love-ins’ in the park.

By the time I got back to Portales to spend my time waiting for the Peace Corps India X training to begin in Hawaii the world had begun a sea-change, though it didn’t know it. 

But at least some of the pressure was off in Portales.  The waitress had found someone else with better prospects for a bright future.  Cotton farmer, he turned out to be, if I remember correctly.

Old Jules

Learning debts incurred Universe-wise

Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.

I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately, learning a lot, some of which might be false, but I learned it anyway. Now that I’ve blown out enough tires on two different RVs to satisfy my curiosity I’m willing to try to apply some of it. Even though it robs my macho because of not knowing it before when I knew all manner of things.

First off, there’s the thing about tires. They ain’t as good as they used to be. Old guy behind the counter at the tire store and I conversed about it a while when we shared mutual memories of having bought junkyard tires and run them until they were down to the threads. Lots of them, and neither of us remembered much in the way of blowouts.

But now the DOT mandates they date those tires. And as a consequence, he opines they blow just about when the DOT predicted they would. The DOT gave the tire industry a leg up against criticism by providing them an “I told you so!” escape and they made great engineering use of it. Supposition, but possumly true.

Secondly, another old guy pointed out all the tires I’ve blown were right-rear dooleys. Beginning with inside ones. He opined that what I’m doing is running with that right rear wheel too near the pavement edge, maybe off it, forcing the inside-rear tire to carry all the weight. Which makes a hell of a lot of sense.

I’d been mulling over the fact every blowout I’ve had happened on highway RR479 north bound and wondering at the coincidence. It’s a fairly good Texas Ranch Road with a lot of hills and curves. Might just be I’ve been letting it drift, one wheel off the pavement instead of hugging the centerline.

Thirdly, I’ve also satisfied my curiosity about whether I’m interested in arm-wrestling lug nuts put on with impact drivers. Even with a 5 foot cheater, even with a T-bar after they’re loose, I was having to take breaks between lugs. And after I put them back on and tightened them, I’d stop a few miles down the road to check, they’d always be loose enough to require a little more tight with the bar. Half-dozen times between here and Kerrville. If an impact tool’s able to take care of just that problem of reality and confidence, it’s worth the price of admission.

[Debating with myself here, can’t recall whether 4th is spelled, Fourth, or Forth – what-the-hell]

Next: Careful examination of the half-inch drive corded hammer-drill suggests it might function as an impact tool, but it’s going to need a half-inch adapter between the drill-chuck and male socket whatchallit. If it works it’s going to be a lot cheaper than an off the shelf impact tool, and it doesn’t have a battery to go kerplunk.

Next: That trim above the right-rear wheel well [see pic] was destroyed when the tire blew. No way that piece of trim is going to jump out of the Universe at me to be replaced, so I’m going to have to find a way to innovate. Not entirely for aesthetics, but some places are pickypickypicky wanting to see pics of the rig before they’ll consider a person who wants to clean up their trash, mow their grass, listen to complaints of RV owners. In exchange for a pad with hookups, etc.

Last, I’ve been troubled because my ALT gauge doesn’t tell me squat about whether the alternator’s working or not. Couldn’t figure why. A guy on one of the vintage RV groups answered my question about it by telling me he had the same problem. Bought a cheap digital gadget plugs into the lighter socket. I got one yesterday and hot diggety damn. Yes, HOT diggety damn! You heard me right.

But I’ve digressed. The crux of it all is that, after having been provided all this new stuff to learn, I have to live long enough to use it, damn me if I don’t. Got myself a karmic debt on my Credit Card with an obligation I might carry spang into my next lifetime if I kick before using it.

So now, instead of just having to live long enough to pay back Keith and Rich for the lifesaving loans to get the RVs, instead of just having to outlive the damned cats, I’ve got to spend the remainder of my life changing blown tires and unscrewing pesky lug nuts.

Sheeze.

Old Jules

Texas Gals Kick Ass

Tastefully tattooed on the inside of the thigh of the Goldilox behind me in line at Walmart.  She saw me trying to read it and lifted her leg to make it easier.  “Awsome?”

I’ve seen worse.”  I was a lot younger and mostly drunk, but a number worse ones still came to mind.

She frowned at meand I squinted my brain trying to figure out just what the hell “Texas Gals Kick Ass” could be intended to communicate to readers.  Luckily the cashier interrupted.  “You want the two-year return plan for $5 more?”

Me grabbing for straws welcoming any distraction, “Yeah.  Sure.”

A person gets a statement tattooed anywhere there’s bound to be meaning hiding in it.  Something intended to happen in the mind of the person who sees it.  From now until she’s my age.

Hell, maybe she’s into Kung Fu, or plays soccor.  Maybe she’s a wild-burro rider on the rodeo circuit.  I was surprised by the ‘gals’ part… wasn’t my impression young women today would sit still for being called gals. 

The ‘Texas’ part?  I count it a relief.

I honestly don’t like to think about gals outside Texas going around kicking ass, or saying they do.  Thinking they do.

Not bad in the thigh department, though.

Old Jules

Tequila sunrise

Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.

Old Ms. Niaid managed to off Brother Rattler without any consequences evidently, so she’s going to have to find something else to flesh out her life experience, I reckons. Her long hair’s growing back from the sheep shearing when the hot weather hit, and it’s filling up with beggar’s lice and grass burrs, which might serve to fend off whatever’s around here dangerous to aging bachelorette felines.

Ms. Tabby, on the other hand, has a nose and front-of-her-face of the usual Tabby-summertime variety. Can’t keep her nose out of cactus, or out of the business of something capable of adding color and romance to an otherwise nondescript Tabby face. I’m thinking when we get out of here she might turn out to be a regular-looking cat.

I decided yesterday I’m going to add mothballs to that storage building to get those rattlers out where they can enjoy life instead of bickering and snarling inside that dark storage building. Can’t tell when someone’s going to want something else out of there and the anxiety level trying to find it ain’t worth not stepping on a snake some night going from the RV to the cabin to check my email.

Today I’m going to nurse the Escape Route V 2.51 into Kerrville on three tires on back and have the two blown ones replace with respectable 10 ply exceptions to the rule. Provided the spare on the ground right-rear doesn’t decide to blow the plan. I’ll try to take back roads and get the roadwork done early before the pavement gets too hot.

Keith emailed me a while back he’s planning to be in New Mexico late August or September, and I’m going to tentatively plan on getting out to visit while he’s in the area. Hopefully by then everything will be settled out here and I’ll be able to think of out-there as home for a while.

Maybe get me a nice little piece of ocean-side ground on the east, or west coast of New Mexico, once all the damned ice goes away and raises sea-level to a reasonable altitude. 4000′ mean sea level might be about right. Maybe the cats and I will open a little bait shop on the west coast near where Arizona used to be. Or maybe rig a surfboard and hang ten mornings after we pray the sun up.

I figure the west coast will probably be less jam packed with Arizonians than the east coast will be with Texans because those Texans already all go to New Mexico deliberately to ski and gamble at Ruidoso and Angel Fire. Arizonians and Californians never go to New Mexico deliberately unless they’re just going through it to get somewhere else.

By the time they wake up and discover they’re living in a salt-water swimming hole I’ll have things nailed down on all the corners, wave to them as they swim to shore, or ride in on their bass boats. Sell them some bait, maybe.

Big plans for the future here.

Old Jules